


it's a cruel summer (with you)

by ginbucket (inlightofvisa)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Slow Build, i love too many of these idiots to let them get away, will be canon divergent after the timeskip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22839067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlightofvisa/pseuds/ginbucket
Summary: ”And what do you think I wanted?” Claude asks. His eyes are sharp again, violently emerald in the moonlight.“To win, but it didn’t matter how,” Sylvain says, regretting the words as they cross his lips. Claude is still an insurmountable fortress, expression guarded and heart under lock and key.“Can’t say that I like sacrifices too much now,” Claude says, voice dull. “Like Annette said earlier, it was easier when I didn’t know who I was cutting down.”
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 27
Kudos: 85





	1. devils roll the dice (angels roll their eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, every single track off Lover is a Clauvain song and you cannot convince me otherwise. This rocketed Cruel Summer to the top of my most played in 2019 and I am not even mad about it.
> 
> OH ALSO???? A HUGE THANK YOU TO MY GOOD FRIENDS FOR COMING WITH ME THROUGH THIS FUCKING ADVENTURE? GO THANK THEM (@kettiecorn and @royalspacefish) ON TWITTER

Sylvain had never really noticed Claude. They had danced with each other at the welcome ball (the only detail Sylvain retained was that Claude had only completed one full dance with two people—himself, and the new professor), but other than that he’d had no reason to get to know the leader of the Golden Deer. That is, until the professor had wordlessly pushed a backgammon set into his hands before rushing towards the cathedral. They... were definitely an interesting new addition. 

Claude had seen the whole thing transpire, of course. If Sylvain had learned anything about Claude in the first weeks of classes, it was that Claude made it his job to know everything about everyone. A regular social butterfly. 

“Oh, you like backgammon too?” Claude asks, eyes bright. “Didn’t think there was anyone else here who liked it. Hubert turned his nose up at the very idea.”

“I’m just surprised you even got him to acknowledge you in conversation,” Sylvain says, still limply holding the folded backgammon board in his hands. He looks down, gripping the box more firmly. The finely polished ebony almost twinkles in the sunlight. “But uh, yeah. I like backgammon.”

“Looks like I misjudged you,” Claude says, raising a hand to cover his smile. 

“I don’t like to lay it all on the table all at once,” Sylvain replies, grinning. “I like to keep them guessing, keep them wanting more.”

“Oh?” Claude asks, eyebrows rising. “And what happens when they stop wanting more?” 

Sylvain laughs, tucking the board under his arm. “Oh trust me, they never stop wanting more,” he says. “Now, did you want to play or what?”

Claude bites his bottom lip before shaking his hands vigorously and letting the dice roll across the board. He takes his move, one of his checkers veering dangerously close to one of Sylvain’s pieces resting solo on a point. 

“Way too close,” Sylvain says, exhaling loudly and wiping his brow. Claude rolls his eyes, taking a break from surveying the board. 

“Jeez, for being so secretive about your hidden talents, you sure are overly dramatic,” he says. Sylvain winks at him, scooping up the dice. 

“I’ve heard it’s a likable quality of mine,” he says cheerfully, flashing a grin at him. “That, and being a bit of an asshole.”

“That one I heard about from Ingrid,” Claude says, folding his arms across his chest. He takes a look at the board again before looking up and smirking at Sylvain. “I think the entire dining hall heard about it.” 

Sylvain sighs, opening his hands and letting the dice spill onto the board. He smiles as he takes his move. “Falling behind there Mr. Tactician Man.”

“Don’t think I’ve heard that one before,” Claude says, snatching up the dice and taking stock of his pieces. Sylvain has two checkers left on his thirteenth point; Claude a straggler left deep on his own point twenty. The dice clatter against the board and Claude deftly moves the loner to Sylvain’s point nine. 

“If I roll a snake eyes it’s over for you, yknow?” Sylvain asks. Claude smirks again, folding his hands on the table in front of him. 

“If I lose, it’s fate,” he says simply. Sylvain blinks in confusion, studying Claude’s face carefully before picking up the dice and rolling. 

The dice clack against the board for an eternity it seems— _when did this game start to feel like something more than just a game?_ Sylvain wonders—before they settle to a stop. Claude’s expression is unreadable, as blank as the two single pips staring up at Sylvain from where they rest. 

“So,” he starts, but Claude breaks into a shit-eating grin. 

“Nice work,” he says, radiating energy. Sylvain swears that Claude’s bouncing in his seat. _He_ had won, not Claude. 

“You’re weirdly happy about this,” Sylvain says, eyebrows furrowed. “Unless this is some strange Alliance intimidation tactic...”

Claude laughs, and somehow Sylvain can tell it’s different. His shoulders are loose, eyes squeezed shut, hands open and relaxed. 

“It’s just nice to see you actually apply yourself to something,” Claude says, resting his arms behind his head. “Didn’t realize it would be a board game, but hey, we all have our things.” 

“Yeah,” Sylvain says slowly, brow still furrowed. “I guess so.” 

They start to clean up, Claude making a comment here and there about how classes are going so far, the personality quirks of their classmates, the strange emptiness of the professor’s mannerisms. Sylvain tracks the conversation easily, bantering when talk flows into it, and suddenly the dinner bell chimes a deep rich baritone across the courtyard. 

“Dinner already?” He says with surprise. “I lost track of the time.”

“Time flies when you’re in good company,” Claude replies, winking at him. Sylvain feels something flutter in him, but it must be his stomach. He’s starving. 

“The same could be said of you,” Sylvain says. “I’m gonna go put this away and then find some of the other Lions to go to dinner with.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Claude asks. He still has that shit eating grin plastered on his face. “I think all the Deer will already be done by the time we end up getting to the dining hall—and there’s nothing I hate more than eating alone.” 

“Forward, aren’t we?” Sylvain says, chuckling. “First a board game, and now dinner?” 

“This deer knows better than to sleep in a lion’s den, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Claude says cheekily as he starts moving towards the dining hall.

Ingrid and Felix give the two of them a look when they sit down with the rest of the Lions. True to Claude’s word, the Deer are finishing up. Leonie is off to the Knights Hall, Lysithea and Lorenz heading back to the library to study, Ignatz sheepishly running out to paint the sunset, Marianne to the stables, Hilda back to her room (“Evading her responsibilities,” Claude explains), and Raphael to the training ground, probably for more weight lifting. 

“You weren’t lying about your house being done already,” Sylvain says as he sits down next to Ingrid. 

“I would think the head of the house would know his own classmates,” Felix grouses. “At least he pays attention to what’s important.”

Sylvain pretends to be offended, a hand on his chest.

“Me? Not paying attention? How could you say such slander, old friend?”

It earns him an eye roll from Felix and a groan from Ingrid. 

“Not sure you should say things when Teach has you right square in the front due to… how did they put it? ‘Your overactive gaze,’” Claude says wryly, twirling a fork in his hand. Sylvain gawks at him. Annette starts choking and Mercedes gracefully slaps her on the back. “I happened to be walking by, and the window was open.” 

“I didn’t invite you here to be _mocked_ ,” Sylvain grumbles, angrily stuffing a piece of food in his mouth. 

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen Sylvain defeated by a witty comment,” Ingrid says. “Maybe we should have you eat with us more often.” 

Claude laughs, bumping shoulders with Sylvain. 

“I’d like that,” he says, nodding to Dimitri as he joins them. “Building on some future diplomacy wouldn’t hurt either.” 

“I am not sure that risking the dignity of one of my nobles is worth the price of peace,” Dimitri deadpans. Sylvain levels a look at him while Ingrid and Claude burst out laughing. Felix even cracks a rare smile. 

“I’m sure my sacrifice won’t be in vain,” Sylvain says. 

“I knew you’d see it my way,” Claude says cheerfully. 


	2. fever dream high in the quiet of the night (you know that i caught it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come back safe tomorrow,” Claude says. It’s a strange tone that Sylvain’s never heard from him before. 
> 
> “Yeah,” Sylvain says, feeling a thousand miles away. “I’ll try.”

Sylvain runs into Claude outside the Blue Lions classroom one late afternoon during the Harpstring Moon. It’s the eve of their first mission, and Sylvain’s heart is pounding. 

“Our task is to rout some bandits in the Red Canyon,” Byleth had said, face expressionless and tone flat. 

“Rout? As in… beat them so thoroughly they have no choice but to retreat?” Annette had said, voice hopeful. Her clenched fists had given her away though, at least to Sylvain. And maybe to the professor. They shook their head, eyes still blank. 

“This will involve some bloodshed,” they said. “Keep both Annette and Mercedes safe, everyone.” 

The classroom was deafeningly silent as the Professor dismissed them for the day. 

“Hey,” Claude says, breaking through Sylvain’s thoughts. 

“Hey,” Sylvain says, stuttering. He slings his bag over his shoulder and runs a hand through his hair. “I have to--” 

“You got time for a game?” Claude asks, brandishing a board at him. Sylvain blinks, considering the piece of wood. Two deep divots are etched into it at either side, with two rows of 6 holes between them. The unmistakable sound of polished stones comes from the bag that Claude shakes in his other hand. 

“I’m… not feeling great,” Sylvain says quickly. “Maybe--” 

“First mission is tomorrow, I know,” Claude says easily, flashing a smile at him. “Let me help you relax a bit at least.” 

It’s a small break to their routine. Board games had been how they both spent their afternoons on Sundays, always initiated by Claude. Sylvain doesn’t exactly have an amazing track record, but he’s got enough wins to feel proud of himself. Interestingly, he notes, the times that he wins leave Claude happier than his losses. It’s confusing, to say the least. Sylvain considers his alternatives--going to the training ground to spar with an inevitably grumpy Felix, sitting alone with his anxiety--before making up his mind. 

“Sure,” he says, exhaling with a puff. “I guess I could use a break from just getting inside my head.” Claude grins wider as he taps Sylvain’s chest with the wooden board. 

“Let’s go grab a table in the courtyard and then we’ll get started.” 

“You can’t tell me you didn’t see that one coming,” Sylvain says as he drops a stone into an empty well. He scoops up the stones from both sides of the board, gathering the ones he captured from Claude’s side. 

“I didn’t,” Claude admits, hands clasped together in front of his face. “I can do my best to foresee some of your moves, but with this game it’s hard to account for every single variable.” 

Sylvain squints at the board, counting up the stones in his well. “I… won.” 

Claude laughs, rubbing his face sheepishly. “Looks like you did,” he says. He grins openly at Sylvain, who’s still watching him with a guarded expression. 

“If you think about it, I learn more from losing than from winning,” Claude says. Sylvain blinks. “Every time you’ve beaten me so far, you’ve gotten this look on your face. You’re pretty easy to read.” 

Sylvain feels one side of his mouth quirk up into a half smile. 

“Can’t say I’ve heard that before,” Sylvain says as he helps Claude clean up the mancala board. “Most of the girls I see are pretty unconcerned with what I think.” 

“Until you dump them,” Claude says with a smirk, scooping the last of the stones into their pouch. “Don’t act surprised that I know, I’ve talked to Ingrid a bit. And I’ve seen the aftermath.” 

“Lorenz didn’t help this last time,” Sylvain protests, and Claude laughs. 

“I don’t think either of you were going to succeed,” Claude replies. Sylvain pouts at him before folding up the mancala board. 

“So what _do_ you think?” Claude asks after a bit. The afternoon sun is warm on Sylvain’s skin, not as warm as the summer, but still warmer than the sunlight up in Gautier. 

“About what?” Sylvain asks. 

“About being easy to read,” Claude says, leaning back in his chair. “I’d say you’re easier than most.” 

Sylvain shifts in his seat, taking stock of everyone else around them. A couple other students are enjoying tea or working on assignments at the tables near them in the courtyard, but for the most part the area is fairly quiet. He bristles slightly. 

Talking honestly about his thoughts had never been his strong suit. Sylvain had learned early on that his ideas clashed almost constantly with his father’s ideal for a crested Faerghus noble, so he had learned to keep quiet, providing only humorous and outlandish answers in his own flavor of rebellion. It’s strange being asked what he truly thinks--it’s a level of vulnerability and nakedness that he’s not ready to explore with Claude. 

_Yet_ , a part of him says, and he’s also not ready to explore what that means. 

“It’s part of being a good actor, I guess,” he says carefully. “I’m just so used to people not wanting to know anything about me other than what fits their fantasies, so I give them what they want to see. People are always excited to be courted by a nobleman, especially one with a crest. The potential status goes straight to their heads.” 

Claude drums his fingers against his chin, quiet. “Well, _I’m_ interested in what’s going on in that head of yours,” he says, “because otherwise I wouldn’t continue playing all these board games with you.” 

“Hubert won’t say yes, will he?” Sylvain asks, cracking a smile. Claude laughs brightly.

“He and Edelgard won’t even acknowledge the fact that I had their favorite game all set up when I was waiting for you on Sunday,” he says. “A guy can only take rejection so many times.” 

“Somehow, I’m not surprised that Kingdoms is their favorite game,” Sylvain sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not fun when people are predictable like that.” 

He pauses a bit before picking up his bag and turning to Claude. The late afternoon sun glints in Claude’s eyes, and Sylvain suddenly feels breathless. “Thanks for the game,” he says, gulping. “I… think I feel a bit better.” 

“Come back safe tomorrow,” Claude says. It’s a strange tone that Sylvain’s never heard from him before. 

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, feeling a thousand miles away. “I’ll try.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! If you want to pester me to write and/or interact with me, you can find me at @kahtonotkayto on Twitter!


	3. (and if i bleed) you'll be the last to know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain can feel the familiar thrum of his crest sparking to life in his blood before he pivots on his good leg, sweeping his lance out just like his father taught him. The thief falls with a cry. Sylvain exhales before his right leg collapses under him. 
> 
> “I had to do it,” he says, under his breath. “Don’t hate me, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was I living on Fire Emblem wiki pages looking for dialogue fragments from the Red Valley Dominance mission for this? As the great poet Naruto once said, "Believe it!"

The Lions are subdued on their way back to the monastery. Annette and Ingrid are the only two fired up about their first battles, Annette repeatedly recounting her excitement at downing one of the thieves attempting to flank Mercedes. Dedue is as taciturn as usual, but Dimitri’s fists are clenched tight, the metal of his gauntlets creaking. Sylvain exhales as he steps through the gateway, rubbing at the ghost of a wound where a thief had gotten too close. Thank the goddess for Mercedes and her prowess with healing magic, but his body still remembered the feeling of metal cutting into--

“Hey!” Claude’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “Looks like everyone’s doing alright!” 

Sylvain blinks quickly before pulling on a weary smile. “Yeah, we all got out more or less in one piece.” 

“How was it?” Claude asks, bouncing on his feet. “Man, you guys are so lucky that you got an actual mission where you _did_ stuff, ours was so boring.” 

“It was fine,” Sylvain says, stopping to give Claude his full attention. “Everyone’s more or less okay, and that’s really all I could’ve asked for.” 

Ashe sniffles as he walks by them, Felix following closely after in what Sylvain realizes as a rare show of protectiveness. Mercedes looks just as ashen as when her Nosferatu bit back harder at the bandit that had managed to get the jump on her, eyes dull. Claude’s eyes narrow. 

“What’s… what happened?” he asks. Sylvain shrugs, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Some of us weren’t as ready to kill as we thought,” he says. He takes a deep breath and presses again at his phantom wound. Claude blinks quickly before he purses his lips. 

“Come with me,” he says, voice low. He reaches out a hand towards Sylvain, palm up. Sylvain looks at it for a beat, before Claude brandishes his hand again. “I think I have something that can help.” 

Sylvain swallows, and then grabs on.

Claude keeps a gentle pace as they head towards the dorms, stopping whenever Sylvain winces. Their conversation is as simple as talking with Ingrid, Felix, or Dimitri, and something about that fact tugs at the edge of Sylvain’s mind. It gets pushed further and further away with each tap of pain against his leg as they climb the stairs to the nobles’ rooms. 

“This is the point in time where I hate that our quarters are on the second floor,” Sylvain grumbles. 

“They have to help us get our training in somehow, right?” Claude jokes. “If Linhardt’s room didn’t have stairs on either side of it I swear he’d never have any way to build stamina.” 

“He’s a surprisingly good runner,” Sylvain says, chuckling a bit as they finish walking up the main staircase. He sighs as he takes in the two remaining sets of stairs between Ingrid’s room and his. “Ferdinand chased him clear across the monastery yesterday.” 

“I wonder if his crest influences that,” Claude says, looping Sylvain’s arm around his shoulders. “To my knowledge, Cethleann tends to amplify healing magic, but who’s to say it doesn’t work in other ways?” 

Claude’s back is warm through his clothing, and as they walk up the first set of stairs, Sylvain finds himself leaning heavily on Claude, his left hand slowly starting to throb as his crest sigil appears. If Claude notices, he thankfully doesn’t say anything, but Sylvain notices a wave of heat rolling off of him. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

Claude nods, giving him a small smile. “Didn’t realize that was how your crest manifested.” 

Sylvain grimaces, lips tightening. It’s the first time Claude has ever brought up his crest and though Claude has a crest of his own ( _and furthermore_ , an unhelpful voice adds, _is probably not looking to marry Sylvain for status_ ), Sylvain still bristles. 

“Yeah, it’s… unfortunately obvious.” 

They’re quiet as they walk past the Black Eagles’ rooms. Sylvain hisses as they start up the final set of stairs, wincing as he puts weight on his right leg. Instead of the dull ache, this pain is sharp, lancing up his leg and into his side. Claude grunts as he shifts, taking more of Sylvain’s weight as Sylvain effectively hops up the stairs, hand gripping the railing. 

“Must’ve been pretty nasty,” Claude says quietly. He pushes his door open. Sylvain raises his eyebrows as the door hits one of the posts of Claude’s bed. 

“Wow, you get special treatment or something?” he asks. “Your bed is… definitely twice the size of mine.” 

Claude winks at him. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Gautier.” 

Sylvain stares at him for a second and lets Claude sit him down on the bed. “I,” he splutters. “I wasn’t, I promise!” 

Claude just laughs as he rifles through a mess of bottles on his dresser. “It’s funny watching you on the receiving end of this,” he says. 

Sylvain feels his face heat up. “It takes two to tango,” he manages to say. “Most of the girls I talk to don’t throw it back.” 

“Say what you want,” Claude says, picking up a small bowl of what appears to be a cream. “Do you want me to get you some shorts?” 

“Don’t laugh at them, they’re the academy-issued ones,” Sylvain grumbles. “Bottom drawer.” 

“They can’t be worse than the Golden Deers’,” Claude says as he putters out into the hallway. “My shorts look like I rolled in mud.” 

Sylvain resists the urge to hide his face as Claude comes back into the room, holding the bright blue shorts in his hands. 

“This… is prime loungewear,” he says, trying to stifle a laugh. Sylvain rolls his eyes. 

“Shut up,” he says, playfully batting Claude away. “Let me change.” 

“I don’t see what the problem is, they look cute,” Claude says once he’s re-entered his room. 

“I’m sure I’d be cuter out of these,” Sylvain says, cocking an eyebrow at him. 

“Sylvain,” Claude says dangerously. He dips two fingers in the cream concoction before brandishing them at Sylvain. “Where?” 

“Uh,” Sylvain says before pointing at the middle of his left thigh, slightly off center. Claude pales a bit. 

“You’re really lucky,” he says finally, kneeling on the ground and starting to massage the cream onto Sylvain’s leg. “Almost got your femoral.” 

Sylvain can’t help the whimper that escapes him as he leans back on his hands. The cream is both cold and tingly against his skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of Claude’s hands. 

“Y-yeah,” he says. “It also helps that Mercedes is astounding with white magic.” 

“A femoral artery wound doesn’t have to be that deep,” Claude says, briefly looking up at Sylvain from his ministrations. “Mercedes would have to be quick, and I don’t think a Heal would cover that.” His lip twitches. 

“What… happened?” 

Sylvain gulps. His heart starts to race, and--

* * *

He feels the cool wind at his back, the air racing through the walls of the canyon. The professor had taken Ashe, Annette, and Ingrid with them, leaving Sylvain with Felix, Dimitri, Dedue, and Mercedes to attack from the west. 

Dedue easily strikes down one of the thieves advancing from Dimtri’s flank. “Still whole and sound, I hope,” he says as he scans the crags, looking for more enemies. “Your Highness, are you well?” 

“I know they were just thieves,” Dimtri says, adjusting his grip on his lance, “but this never gets easier for me.” 

“Are you hurt?” Mercedes asks. Both of them shake their heads. 

“Thank you, Mercedes,” Dimitri says. “We will cover the front--Felix, you and Sylvain keep track of our backs.” 

“You’re just denying me the chance for good practice,” Felix grumbles. 

“Our role is just as important as theirs,” Sylvain says, twirling his lance easily. “Don’t belittle it.” 

“If it’s so important, why doesn’t the boar do it himself,” Felix says before stalking off towards the central meeting point. 

“Fuck,” Sylvain mutters under his breath. “Felix!”

“He’ll be fine,” Mercedes says cheerfully. “He’s a strong boy after all.” 

“There’s a reason Dedue and Dimitri are in the front,” Sylvain protests. “Dimitri and the professor talked about this beforehand!” 

“Let’s press ahead then,” Mercedes says. Sylvain nods, turning around before an arrow whizzes by his head. Mercedes yells out an incantation before there’s a quick burst of light. The thief behind Sylvain shrieks before crumpling to the ground. 

“Thanks,” Sylvain says shakily. Mercedes is ashen, a blank stare in her eyes as she looks at her hands. 

“I… I hope the goddess blesses them to rest in peace,” she says, voice as jagged as the rock walls. Sylvain takes her hand. 

“Let’s keep pushing forward,” he says. Mercedes nods, and lets herself be led to the rest of the group. 

Dimitri lets out a grunt as he slashes at a thief to his left. Dedue is faithfully backing him up, but Felix is zipping around the center of the field, sword flashing as he fells the two archers. 

“Finished already?” he taunts, snarling. “I was hoping for more of a challenge.” 

“This isn’t the time to be trash talking,” Sylvain says once he’s regrouped with them. “This is serious, you could die out here.” 

“Shut up,” Felix says. “All I care about is whether or not anyone can present me with a challenge. So far, the answer is no.” 

Sylvain catches the glint of something out of the corner of his eye before he pushes Felix back towards Mercedes.

“Move!” he shouts before the thief’s knife buries itself in his leg. The color drains from Felix’s face. 

“Syl--”

Sylvain can feel the familiar thrum of his crest sparking to life in his blood before he pivots on his good leg, sweeping his lance out just like his father taught him. The thief falls with a cry. Sylvain exhales before his right leg collapses under him. 

“I had to do it,” he says, under his breath. “Don’t hate me, please.”

* * *

“Felix pulled the knife out and then Mercedes worked her magic.” 

“That was a terrible joke,” Claude says, snorting. He gets another dab of cream and starts rubbing it into Sylvain’s leg. Sylvain exhales again, relaxing into the soothing sensation of both the ointment and Claude’s hands.

“You could have died if this had been an inch to the right,” Claude says, after a beat. His voice is low, and for some reason he won’t look Sylvain in the eyes. 

“I’m a lucky guy then,” Sylvain says quietly. The pain in his leg is now at a dull, bearable rumble. He reaches for Claude’s hand where it rests on his leg. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Claude says, breathless. His eyes meet Sylvain’s--they’re a brilliant emerald green, the color of dew-covered grass gently waving under a soft breeze at dawn. Sylvain’s words catch in the back of his throat as he wavers. Claude squeezes his hand gently, and that’s able to ground him. He nods. 

“Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, you can find me on Twitter at @kahtonotkayto!


	4. what doesn't kill me makes me want you (more)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The head or the heart,” the professor says from behind him. He manages to catch himself before falling over. The professor returns his glare with a blank stare. “It seemed like you were thinking about helping out.” 
> 
> The “for once” goes unspoken, but Sylvain can still feel the weight of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A humongous thank you to two of my good friends for reading through this multiples for me! Go give them some love on Twitter (@royalspacefish)!

After that, Sylvain doesn’t miss an opportunity for physical contact with Claude, however fleeting. Bumping their hands while walking together after class, shrinking the distance between their chairs during their study sessions in the library, resting his feet against Claude’s legs under the table when they’re playing their usual board games. Claude notices (of course he notices, he’s _Claude_ ), but he never says anything. Nothing for it, nothing against it. Just gives Sylvain an undecipherable look before continuing onwards. Sometimes, he swallows and if Sylvain looks carefully, he can see a slight flush of red on Claude’s cheeks. He takes note. 

The mission with Lonato comes and goes, and he continues to catalog Claude’s expressions and reactions. This new hobby is surprisingly time-consuming, but he doesn’t think anything of it until Ingrid pulls him aside, the second week of the Verdant Rain Moon. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, brow furrowed. The reception hall is buzzing pleasantly with the background noise of people coming and going, monks holding audience with nobles, and the occasional parent visiting their child. “You haven’t made a girl cry in _weeks_.” 

“Thought you’d be happy with that,” Sylvain says, cheeky. Apparently, it’s not the answer that Ingrid wants to hear and she flicks his forehead. He grimaces.

“I’m _concerned_ ,” Ingrid says, face going carefully neutral. To anyone else, her expression would be nigh unreadable, but Sylvain can hear the storm brewing. “Either you’ve somehow been replaced with someone else, or you’re playing the long game with some girl and I am _not_ cleaning up that mess.” 

“I’ve been… focusing on my friends,” Sylvain says weakly, rubbing his head. Ingrid looks at him skeptically. “I’m not doing anything! Nobody’s heart is at stake.” 

“Riiiiight,” Ingrid says, crossing her arms. “This is rich coming from you. Normally you’re juggling at least three different girls at once and breaking a new heart every week. It’s been… what?” She takes stock of the time on her fingers. “Ten weeks? And I’ve heard nothing. I’ve consoled Ashe more than I’ve cleaned up after you, and that’s saying something.” 

“He lost his dad, of course he’s miserable!” Sylvain exclaims. One of the monks walking by gives him a withering look, shushing dramatically. “Have a heart.” 

Ingrid rolls her eyes, kicking at his shins. Sylvain yelps. 

“I _just_ did my laundry,” he grouses, bending down to wipe the dirt off his pants. He’s batting at a particularly stubborn stain from Ingrid’s boots when a sudden, cheery, “Hey,” makes him almost jump. Ingrid snorts.

“Hi Claude,” she says. Sylvain can tell that she’s about to get started on a lecture for her new audience and sighs loudly. “I was just in the middle of telling Sylvain--”

“She’s suspicious because I haven’t broken any hearts in a month and a half,” he says easily, standing back upright and winking at Claude. 

Claude’s hand twitches. An expression flits across his face, somewhere between embarrassment and fondness, before it settles back into his usual poker face. 

“I don’t know about you,” Sylvain continues, leaning towards him conspiratorially, “but I think a friend deserves a break every now and then.”

“How charitable,” Claude says after a beat, stroking his chin. He gives Sylvain a devilish grin. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were up to something.” 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Ingrid says, throwing her hands up. “Someone who finally agrees with me."

Sylvain squawks, looking at Claude in betrayal. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me,” he says. Claude winks back at him, eyes a sparkling jade. 

“Sometimes it’s just fun to poke the bee’s nest,” he says, smiling lightly as he rests his hand on Sylvain’s shoulder, arm brushing against his back. It almost feels like an apology. “Reactions can be telling.” 

The afternoon bell chimes brightly through the hall, and Sylvain catches a glimpse of the other Golden Deer exiting towards the front of the monastery, getting ready to depart for their latest mission. The town windmill casts a long shadow across the marketplace, offering a brief respite from the sun. 

“You have to head out soon?” he asks. Claude nods, still grinning. He lifts his hand, and Sylvain turns to face him. Sylvain almost doesn’t notice how close they’re standing together, but Claude is radiating heat like a Faerghan fireplace in the middle of winter. 

“Tell me about Conand Tower,” Claude says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets. His face is open and excited, glowing in the sunlight. “I’ve never been, and I’ve heard it’s a really cool structure.” 

“It’s just cold,” Sylvain jokes, looking back at Ingrid. She huffs at him. “Ingrid could probably tell you more, it’s in the middle of her family’s territory.” 

“I’d still like to hear about it from you,” Claude says with a sly expression, bumping their shoulders together. He’s dangerously close to leaning into Sylvain, and even with an audience, Sylvain doesn’t think he’d stop Claude from doing so. 

“Guess I’ll have to take notes,” Sylvain says quietly, looking down at Claude. He resists the urge to reach out and touch Claude’s arm, to give him some reassurance that things will go okay. “Stay safe out there.” 

“You too,” Claude says, a fond smile on his face. He waves before turning to join the rest of his house, running down the stairs and out the monastery gate, yellow sash fluttering as it catches the wind. Ingrid stares after him carefully before she punches Sylvain in the shoulder. His yelp is shushed again by another passing monk. 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” she says. 

“What?” Sylvain says, rubbing at his arm with a scowl. 

“You haven’t done anything for weeks because you have a _crush on Claude von Riegan_ ,” she hisses. 

“I do not!” Sylvain protests, rolling his eyes. “We’re just friends!” 

“That goodbye was not ‘just friends,’ Sylvain,” Ingrid says flatly. “Also, _Felix and I_ are your friends and we hardly ever see you anymore outside of class.” She’s using That Tone with him, and he knows he’s in for a lecture if he doesn’t defuse the situation fast. He takes stock of his free time in his head, ticking each activity off on his fingers. Studying with Claude, playing board games with Claude, eating meals with Claude and the rest of the Lions. 

“I still eat with you guys,” he says weakly. 

“ _Claude is still there_ ,” she says. Sylvain can hear the emphasis on each word. “I don’t know what you’re thinking with this stunt Sylvain, but don’t go messing this up. We can’t have the future of the Kingdom and the Alliance ruined because you broke the future Grand Duke’s heart.”

* * *

The journey to Conand is just as miserable as Sylvain remembers it being. The Lions are caught in a sudden downpour, and the rain lashes viciously at everyone’s faces. Gilbert hesitantly offers to use his shield as an umbrella for Annette, whose expression remains ashen the rest of the way there. Ingrid’s pegasus whinnies loudly at being forced to walk, and Sylvain can’t tell if Ashe is sniffing because of the cold or because he’s taking the opportunity to cry with nobody noticing. Mercedes is the only real source of warmth against the cold gray sky, expression sunny as she chats with everyone. Sylvain’s grateful for the distraction, desperate to avoid thinking more about Ingrid’s words. 

The bandits on their way up to the top floor are more a nuisance than anything else, having battled the Western Church the month before, but no amount of preparation would be enough for Sylvain to see Miklan again without feeling a familiar pang of guilt. The Lance of Ruin writhes in Miklan’s hands like a living creature, his face twisting into something dark and nasty as soon as they lock eyes. 

“Why did you come, you Crest-bearing fool?” 

Sylvain looks back at him, a low ember burning in his gut. He remembers the feeling of scrabbling at the rocky wall of the well, stones both too water-smooth to grip and too sharp for comfort. He wasn’t sure if his fingernails would ever grow back or if he’d ever be able to swim again. He squeezes his hand tightly, trying to block out the feeling of clammy socks in his boots and frigid water in his lungs. 

“I’m here for the Lance of Ruin, Miklan,” he says, voice stormy. He hears Annette and Ashe both take a step back. Normally, he’d be concerned with ruining pretenses (he was supposed to be the light, funny one who nobody could count on because… why be reliable?), but with Miklan’s arrogant stance in front of him and bolstered by Felix, Ingrid, and Dimitri behind, Sylvain can hardly find it in himself to care. Let them see this, let them see the real him. This was his problem to deal with, after all--didn’t that earn him some leeway? “Hand it over. I don’t want to humiliate you, but I will.” 

Felix huffs. Sylvain tenses his jaw as Ingrid punches Felix’s arm, earning a soft curse. _Playing by the rules as always, Ingrid_ , he thinks. _Thanks for standing up for my pride._

Miklan snorts, rolling his eyes. He sweeps the Lance lazily around. Sylvain can’t tell if the lance is continuing to squirm in his grip or it’s just a trick of the light. Neither of them had seen the relic while growing up, the Margrave had only ever used it as a threat. 

“Hurry up and die already,” he snarls, mouth twisting into a toothy grimace. “If not for you… if it hadn’t been for you…” 

There’s a low growl from Dimitri, and Sylvain hears the metal groan under his grip. The armorer was going to be making a pretty penny after this. 

“Shut up! I’m so tired of hearing that. You’ve always blamed me for something that isn’t my fault.” He feels the familiar whispers of his youth, voices slithering and acerbic. _Why me? Why couldn’t Miklan have had a crest instead? Could… this all have gone differently?_ “I… couldn’t control it.” 

“Don’t think you’ve earned my pity!” Miklan roars, lunging at him and swiping with the lance. It bounces off of Dedue’s shield with a resonant clang, shocking Sylvain out of his thoughts. Dedue looks back at him, face stern. 

“Are you ready?” he asks. Sylvain adjusts his grip on his own lance and feels his Crest pulse in his blood before the sigil manifests brightly on his hand. 

“Don’t really have a choice,” he mutters. “Thanks Dedue.”

“His Highness would be upset if anything happened to you,” Dedue says matter-of-factly as he blocks another swipe. Sylvain’s expression must shift to something embarrassingly nostalgic because Dedue sighs deeply as he moves his shield once again. “I will be very upset if you continue to stand there and use me as cover.” 

“Right,” Sylvain says, leaping away. “Watch Annette and Mercedes!” 

Miklan’s teeth flash brightly in the dark as he charges after Sylvain. “Don’t think you can hide behind your friends forever!” He stops short as an arrow clatters at his feet. Sylvain takes a breath. 

“Keep moving!” Ashe yells, readying another arrow. “The professor is giving orders to the rest of us--we’ll work with you!” 

There’s another flash of white as Ingrid swoops at Miklan overhead, her pegasus neighing fiercely. She jabs at Miklan’s arms with a yell, landing a square hit on his shield arm. The shield drops to the ground, echoing around the tower chamber. 

“Get back here!” Miklan bellows, slashing the Lance upwards. Ingrid manages to avoid it, but her pegasus brays as the Lance scratches a deep arc across its front legs. 

“Ingrid!” Sylvain shouts. “Get to cover, let me handle this!” 

“I’m not watching you die here,” she yells back, guiding her pegasus back towards Mercedes. Dedue and Dimitri close the gap. Sylvain can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy as he watches Dimitri guide his horse deftly around Miklan. He curses himself for slacking during riding lessons.

“You alright?” Mercedes asks quietly, her hands glowing. 

“Now that you’re here,” Sylvain starts to say, but is rewarded with a slap from Annette.

“Really?” she yelps. “Is now _really_ the time?” 

“Sorry!” Sylvain says. “Sometimes it’s nice to keep the mood light--” 

“ _Move_!” Felix roars. Annette and Mercedes leap towards Dedue. Sylvain exhales before seeing the Lance’s arms squirming in his vision. He looks down. 

“Oh.” 

“Gotcha,” Miklan says, voice dripping with venom. “And now? I’m going to make you suffer the same way I did when Mom and Dad abandoned me for you.” 

“That’s… not the reason why they pushed you out,” Sylvain gasps wetly. “You were a threat to everyone, yourself included.” He groans as Miklan drives the spear deeper into his side. 

“Just because you have a Crest doesn’t mean you know everything,” Miklan says before being knocked away by a Felix-shaped blur. Dimitri leaps after him as Mercedes peers around Dedue’s shield. 

“Sylvain!” Annette shrieks. Mercedes grabs Annette’s hands and between the two of them, the glow of light is almost as bright as day. Dedue kneels beside him and pulls the spear out of his flesh, face apologetic. 

“Thanks,” Sylvain says, breath shallow. His vision starts to go hazy. 

“Hang on,” Annette says, her voice shaking. The white magic from the girls is equal parts biting cold and searing hot. Sylvain cries out, voice ricocheting pitifully against the stones. He faintly registers a hand squeezing his and a comforting weight on his leg. 

“Claude?” he says weakly, turning to the silhouette. The figure says something indecipherable before Sylvain slips into unconsciousness. 

* * * * *

A wet and strangled roar yanks Sylvain awake. He bolts upright, wincing at the phantom pain in his side. Both Mercedes and the professor had managed to bandage him up to cover where the wound had been, but his body wouldn’t shake the memory of bone against--

“What is that?!” Ashe yells. Sylvain looks up, coming face to face with a towering monstrosity of blackened flesh, bright crimson eyes, and spikes rising from the beast’s back. They’re reminiscent of--

“What the--Miklan?! Is that you?!” 

The beast howls again, the echo painful against Sylvain’s skull. Dimitri grimaces. 

“So this is the power of a Hero’s Relic,” he mutters. “To create such a sinister beast… it’s gone too far. I fear all we can do now is put an end to it.” 

Felix growls and is about to charge at the beast but is caught by the professor’s stern hand. 

“Look carefully,” they say. The monster thrums with a golden energy as it slowly lumbers towards the group. “We need to break through that.” 

It turns out the protective magic that the black beast wears shatters like glass, and it doesn’t make the monster any happier. Neither does Felix landing a finishing blow on the thing either (twice, Sylvain notes with horror). It hoists itself upright, rancid liquid gushing from its wounds, and roars. Sylvain isn’t going to be able to sleep for weeks with the sound of it ringing in his ears. 

“How many more times do we have to kill this thing?” Felix barks. It’s obvious his patience is wearing--his form is getting sloppy, and his uniform is drenched with sweat. Sylvain knows that Felix’s back must be killing him--manifesting a major crest (especially one of Fraldarius’s size) wasn’t easy. While using them was like building a muscle, it didn’t make the ordeal any less painful. Sylvain rubs at his wrist in sympathy. 

“I think this should be the last go,” the professor says flatly, their sword flaring back to life. 

“Everyone ready?” Annette asks, energy sparking in her fingers. Ashe nods, drawing his bow. 

“Sylvain, stay back,” Dimitri orders. Sylvain shakes his head, leaning heavily on his lance. The wound on his side may be closed, but it still hurts like a bitch. He tries not to wince. 

“This is my fight more than it is any of yours,” he says. The words feel blocky in his mouth. “I should be the one to end it.” 

“I do not think it is wise to be arguing about propriety at this point in time,” Dedue says, turning to face the beast as it lumbers towards them once more, swiping the air after Ingrid’s pegasus. “Please, if you need to rest, stay with Gilbert.” 

“I’m telling you, this is my responsibility,” Sylvain says. He brandishes his lance, focusing as hard as he can to stand upright. “I’m ending this.” 

“I’m behind you whatever you choose to do, but please be careful,” Mercedes says to his left. She touches his arm. “I’ve been getting good marks in our faith class, but I don’t think I’ve committed myself enough to my studies--I think I have one last good Heal or Physic left in me before I need a break.” 

Sylvain nods, gripping the handle of his weapon like a lifeline. 

“I won’t let you down,” he says, gritting his teeth. 

He looks back at the ongoing fight. The monster’s attention is split four ways: Ingrid flitting about in the air, Felix running circles around it on the ground, Ashe pelting it with arrows, and Dimitri charging at it from horseback. There’s too much going on, and all Sylvain needs is an opening for one good hit, preferably somewhere weak. 

“The head or the heart,” the professor says from behind him. He manages to catch himself before falling over. The professor returns his glare with a blank stare. “It seemed like you were thinking about helping out.” 

The “for once” goes unspoken, but Sylvain can still feel the weight of it. His gut roils with equal parts frustration and guilt at his uselessness. 

“Please, watch my back. And if this doesn’t work out?” he exhales, closing his eyes. This _was_ his responsibility. His mess to clean up. If Gautier ended with him? So be it. “Please look out for my friends.” 

“Sylvain--” the professor starts to say, but he stops them with an outstretched hand. 

“I have to do this,” he says.

Turning to face the beast as it roars out once more, the professor yells out a command at Ingrid, Dimitri, and Felix. They all peel away from the monster as Sylvain starts to rush forward. 

_Thanks Professor,_ he thinks as he tries to time his shaky breathing to the rhythm of his boots clanking against the cobblestones. He barely registers his friends’ faces changing from confusion to horror; Felix is the only one who moves fully into anger as he hollers something that Sylvain can’t hear. He sees a flash as Ashe lands one more arrow into the monster’s leg. It bellows, leaning heavily against a wall while kneeling to the floor. Broken stones clatter to the ground. Sylvain feels a couple of them bounce off his armor, but he presses on. _The head it is._

The monster’s breath is humid and rancid against his armor as he closes the distance, lance aimed carefully forward. 

“Open wide!” he yells. As if it can understand him, the monster’s jaws part and Sylvain rams the point of his lance upward through the roof of its mouth. Foul liquid rains down around him as it shrieks in pain, and he scrabbles to yank his weapon back. His gloves are slippery from the blood (is it his or is it… Miklan’s?) and suddenly his vision whirls before stopping with a painful thump. 

“Sylvain!” someone yells. 

There’s a black haze as the form of the monster dissolves, and from where he’s laying on the ground, Sylvain can barely make out a body. The Lance of Ruin is still twitching, but its otherworldly light is pulsing fainter and fainter. He lets out a faint whoop, coughing wetly from the effort. Gautier inheritance issues? Handled. All two of them. A familiar bitter taste rises in his mouth as his gaze sluggishly moves back to the broken form of his brother. The Lance points back accusingly back at him, its crest stone throbbing like a dying ember. Makes two of them. Sylvain’s body protests as he chokes out a laugh at his own thoughts. The Lance was never his to bear anyway. Not yet, and now, not ever. Gautier would end with him.

“Miklan… my brother…” Sylvain says. As the coldness of the stone against his armor starts to seep into his body, his self-satisfaction vaporizes in the face of one final regret. He realizes, before the world goes dark, that he has no idea where Claude’s crest manifests itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on twitter (@kahtonotkayto) if you'd like to come hang out during the quarantine!


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